On an ordinary Tuesday afternoon in 1991, attorney John T. Winston, III stuffed fifteen $20 dollar bills into his wallet as he strode out of the SouthTrust bank lobby, and into the spring sunshine in his blue and white seersucker suit. He scanned 20th Street for his wife’s gray van with Johnny, Maddie, and Aiden belted in the seats behind her. Late again.

Simultaneously a strong arm gripped his waist from behind, a forearm blow to his shoulder blades bent him forward, and a powerful push thrust him through an open car door into the back seat of an old Chevrolet Caprice at the curb. A heavy body covered him like a blanket as the car accelerated and turned into an alley.

“Don’t try anything and you won’t get hurt,” a gruff voice shouted into his ear. “Hear? I don’t want to kill your ass.”

* * * * *

That evening, I groaned and shook my head slowly when the headline on the TV screen screamed “LAWYER ABDUCTED DOWNTOWN,” with “BREAKING NEWS“ flashing in red below the headline. A jowly anchorman gravely restated the words on the screen and introduced his reporter at the scene of the crime.

A young man with shaggy hair and a microphone at his lips stood on 20th Street, repeated the headline, and reported that the police were searching for a older, gray car hoping to find the abducted young lawyer alive. The camera panned up the facade of the 36-story tower and then showed well-dressed business people passing on the sidewalk. The reporter added that the crime wave, fueled by violent gangs and crazed addicts who would stop at nothing for cash to buy more crack cocaine, had spread to downtown. After watching an interview with a frightened young secretary, I turned off the TV. This was a body blow to downtown’s reputation. As President of Operation New Birmingham, I felt like I had been punched in the gut.

Harry Lynch, CEO of Harbert Realty and a member of ONB’s board, called at just after 8 am the next morning and said, “What the hell? A young man gets snatched on 20th Street in broad daylight. Might be dead. Something’s got to be done. Crime will kill downtown. Never mind new buildings, parking decks, street trees, and all the rest. We’ve lost the department stores and dress shops, now we could lose the banks, law firms, and accountants. We need more police downtown, cops walking beats.” When Harry took a breath, I commiserated for a while before reminding him that Chief Johnson claimed he already had more patrols downtown than the should, given its relatively low crime stats. The North and West Precinct Commanders were begging for more officers to deal with far higher crime stats. I didn’t have to remind him that the chief was adamantly opposed to his men walking beats.

“This might change his mind. I’m going to call the mayor. By God, downtown pays a lot of taxes. Dammit, we’ve got to take action,” said Harry in a way that conjured an image of his red face and popping eyes.

“New Orleans, Louisville, Philadelphia and some other cities have started uniformed safety patrols walking downtown sidewalks. The business community has responded favorably,“ I offered tentatively.

“Might help if they’re armed and have the power to arrest, but I’d rather have sworn officers on foot. Why not? We pay taxes.” Harry replied. “Anyway, we need to make security the main topic at our board meeting this afternoon.”

* * * * *

In minutes, John Winston’s arms were jerked behind him and his assailant’s knee pressed heavily on the base of his spine. His hands were tightly tied behind him with wire. His watch slipped off easily, but his diamond studded wedding band took some tugging and pulling. The weight pressing him into the seat shifted to the back of his legs. His feet were wrapped with wire. A strong tug on his back pocket ripped the seersucker to free a wine-red wallet.

“God Damn! Only $310 fucking dollars,” the oppressor in the back seat shouted to the driver.

“For Christ’s sake! Well, shut up and get the bastard blindfolded. I sure as hell don’t want to do time for a lousy $310. Stuff a rag in his mouth and tie it with a bandana, too.”

The car doors slammed and John heard nothing. Under the blanket, he could see nothing.

* * * * *

On Wednesday, I called Captain Reese at the North Precinct when I returned from lunch, hoping for some good news in the hunt for Winston before the Board Meeting in half an hour. The captain offered a summary, “Surveillance film shows an overweight African-American male shoving Winston into a faded 1987 Chevrolet Caprice, a stolen car. We’ve got every patrol car searching for that car. The chief’s added patrols to the North and West Precincts. There hasn’t been a homicide in downtown in many years. We’ll find him alive.”

Barry Copeland, ONB chairman and a BellSouth executive, stepped into the conference room as I hung up the phone. “Any news on Winston?”

“Still searching. I just hope he’s alive,” I replied as I handed him the revised agenda that began with “Public Safety Discussion” in large, bold letters.

As soon as Barry opened the ONB Board meeting, Harry began, “Public safety is absolutely critical. If the streets are not safe, I can’t rent Harbert’s office buildings, Fox can’t operate AmSouth, and Sam can’t recruit the best accountants coming out of college.”

Sam added, “Harry’s right, but even worse, our clients won’t come downtown. The chief needs to put cops downtown walking beats, like the old days. God knows we’re paying more city taxes than anyone else.” He hunched his shoulders as he looked around the table at men in suits that represented the downtown corporations, property owners, and professionals.

Fox nodded and said, “You’re right, Sam, but crime is so high in some of these neighborhoods that the mayor and city council would raise holy hell if the chief moved more officers downtown. It’s just not in the cards.”

“I’m afraid Fox is right; the mayor is not going to move officers from the neighborhoods to downtown. The voters are in the neighborhoods. Let’s hear about what other cities are doing,” said Barry turning toward me.

“Several cities have created uniformed foot patrols on the sidewalks to provide a reassuring presence, give directions to visitors, and answer questions. Philadelphia calls them downtown ambassadors. Most importantly, they serve as additional eyes and ears for the police and are connected to police dispatchers by radio, but they are not armed…” I said when Harry interrupted.

“Hell, these gang members aren’t afraid of the police. These ‘boy scouts’ might get abducted themselves. We need armed, sworn policemen, highly visible all over downtown,” said Harry with his fist clenched and his face flush with color.

“These ambassadors would cost a lot less than trained police officers. That’s important because the property owners fund them through a special assessment based on property value,” I said ominously.

After another round of grumbling about the city, the mayor and the police chief, Barry concluded, “Let’s invite the mayor and the chief to our next meeting, but let’s also get more details on patrol programs from other cities.”

* * * * *

Total darkness. Like hiding in the closet as a kid, John lay still and heard only himself breathing through his nose. The rag in his mouth smelled like grease. Finally he turned his head and rubbed the blindfold on the seat until it slid off. A little light filtered under the smelly blanket covering him. He squirmed repeatedly. Wires dug into his wrists and ankles, but eventually the blanket fell to the floor. He saw a weathered clapboard wall through the back window and a twilight sky through the front window. Employing the same maneuver with the the bandana tied behind his neck and holding the foul rag in his mouth, it loosened, and he spit out the oily rag. Exhausted by his exertion, he fell into a deep sleep.

* * * * *

A Balch & Bingham lawyer, made available to ONB by Alabama Power, advised that the legislature would have to pass a law enabling Birmingham to create assessments based on property values to fund a security patrol. After the mayor responded as predicted on the following day, Barry said we had no alternative to pursuing legislation. We recruited a task force of corporate leaders, merchants, and property managers to work with Alec and me to draft a bill. John Woods, CEO of AmSouth Bank, would be named chair of the task force and AmSouth President Fox DeFuniak would lead the project.

I highlighted appropriate sections in ordinances I had collected from Philadelphia and Louisville. Alec and I cut and pasted a draft bill to enable Birmingham to establish an assessment district to fund security patrols. Property values for downtown were totaled and potential budgets were prepared. We were satisfied that the enterprise was generally feasible.

* * * * *

The car was flooded with bright sunlight when John awoke, confused by his surroundings. Hungry and thirsty, John struggled with the wires on his hands to no avail. He yelled for help in the closed car. Realizing that no one would hear him, he lay motionless in despair.

Eventually anger and frustration replaced despair and self-pity, and he kicked the door with his wire-bound feet. Then it occurred to him that he could kick out the window. The heels of his loafers cracked the glass and after many blows it fell out. He cheered and maniacally screamed for help for several minutes. His dry throat ached. His cries for help became intermittent as the daylight began to fade.

A pig-tailed girl peeked through the open window. He screeched “Please help me,” and she vanished. In a few minutes, she reappeared with a grandfatherly man with a gray mustache. He nodded and promised to call the police. The sirens were balm to John’s wretched state of mind.

* * * * *

At a press conference the next morning, Fox expressed relief that Mr. Winston was reunited with his family, praised the police for their response, and cited statistics that showed crime was rare in downtown. He also announced that the downtown business community proposed a new security patrol in downtown funded by the business community. A bill would be submitted to the legislature in the near future. The Birmingham News ran stories about John Winston’s ordeal and Fox’s announcement side by side on page one, above the fold.

We were confident that the legislature would readily approve an initiative supported by the banks, utilities, and corporations would be adopted. As Fox said, “The business community wanted to assess itself to enhance security.” Business lobbyists relayed this message to the legislators, but our bill was never put on the calendar for a vote and died. The next year, we retained a well-connected professional lobbyist, and a committee hearing was scheduled on our bill.

Harry Lynch was tapped to represent us because the prestigious firm of Harbert Properties had no legislation pending that year. Harry began by confessing that he had strongly opposed the proposal initially. He vividly described his reaction. Once he had the legislators attention, he made the case for allowing the city council to implement the proposal. No tax dollars would be involved.

The committee approved the bill, and our lobbyist arranged for consideration when the chairman of the rules committee “played baseball,” a bizarre practice that allowed committee chairmen to offer three bills for a quick vote late in the afternoon. Three strikes and they’re out. Generally bills with a local impact in a chairman’s district are passed routinely on voice votes. Our legislation was enacted without opposition and signed into law by the governor. Not the democratic process I learned in civics class, but I was delighted.

Two years after John Winston’s horrific experience, the City of Birmingham had the authority to assess downtown property owners to create a security patrol. Harry was a zealous convert, but many property owners vowed to block what they called another tax for public safety, a basic responsibility of the city. Some said it was double taxation. Convincing the city to exercise their new, hard-won authority would be a challenge, but passage of the enabling legislation was something to celebrate.

The Alabama Theatre’s three-story sign and marquee loomed in the next block. The sign was dark like most of the stores I passed on Third Avenue North. The show windows of the Loveman’s and Burger-Phillips department stores were boarded with gray, weathered plywood, and several smaller stores were empty. Trash had accumulated in entryways. I could count the pedestrians on one hand.

When I was close enough to discern the message on the unlit marquee, my stubborn hopes for revitalization sank further:

T ose Who Su vived Are Better Off Dead

DEATH SHIP

Late how Fri Sat

It was 1982, and I was in my second week as CEO of Operation New Birmingham, a small non-profit organization charged with revitalization of downtown Birmingham. I knew people in other cities rallied around historic movie palaces, and this 1927 theater could be a catalyst for the rebirth of downtown. The Mayor’s top aide, Ed LaMonte, gave me a phone number for Cecil Whitmire. I was surprised that the receptionist answered “Long-Lewis Hardware,” but when I was connected to Mr. Whitmire, he readily agreed to show me the theatre after finishing his day job.

After I stepped past the ornate ticket booth and into the theater lobby, a middle-aged man with a round face in a camel-colored blazer stepped toward me with his hand extended. Pumping my hand, he said “Welcome to the Showplace of the South, one of America’s finest historic movie palaces.”

“Very impressive!” I replied as my eyes adjusted to the dim light cast by elaborate sconces lining the lobby. Deep red carpets, patterned wallpaper, large gilt mirrors, and chandeliers suspended from a high ceiling matched my image of a French brothel.

“I apologize that we don’t have more light. Most of the bulbs burned out during cold snaps this winter when we keep all 7,000 bulbs burning for a little heat to protect the plaster and the organ. The owner complained about the power company bills, but it worked.”
So you have no heating or air conditioning?”

“That’s right. We only do shows in the spring and fall when we pray the weather’s not too warm or too cool. Our volunteer crews will be here all weekend replacing bulbs to get ready for spring shows.”

Cecil flicked on an industrial flashlight and highlighted the moldings, chandeliers, and an elegant red-carpeted staircase that spiraled up to the mezzanine and upper balconies. An elaborately lettered sign above the stairs to the lower level read “The Lounge.”

“We’ve got to change that sign. Nowadays our patrons expect a bar with a piano player downstairs, but it’s only restrooms and an area with couches and chairs where men wait impatiently for women to emerge with their noses powdered,” Cecil chuckled. Part of his oft-repeated spiel, I suspected.

He shone his light on peeling paint from roof leaks, and gave me a worried look. I followed him into the lobby. Rows of Raisenetts, Good’n’Plenty, Milk Duds, and gummy bears were displayed in an old-fashioned glass concession stand next to a popcorn machine with a metal scoop and remnants of the previous night’s production on the floor of the bin. Red and white boxes were stacked on the counter, ready to be filled when patrons arrived for Gone With the Wind or some other classic movie. We pay for a small ad with the suburban theaters, but the Birmingham News runs stories about our classic movies and the vintage actors.

“We survive on income from concessions. Volunteers work the stand, take tickets, direct people to their seats, and clean up after every event. The projectionist is the only paid employee, and that’s because the Screen Actors Guild requires it. People who grew up coming downtown for matinees as kids come in on Saturdays to polish the brass, wash the windows and mirrors, and change light bulbs. They love this fine old, grand dame.”

Cecil held the door open for me as I took small, cautious steps down the dark aisle beneath the balcony. The aisle sloped to the front of a stage beneath an ample burgundy curtain. When I emerged from the shadow of the balcony, I stopped to take in the expanse. The intricate plaster ceiling floated high above like mauve clouds and a blue sky. Curtained boxes suitable for royalty marched downward toward the stage. Columns, arches, and moldings were highlighted in red and gold bathed in soft light.

“The design is a Spanish and Moorish pastiche that was popular in the Twenties,” said Cecil behind me as I marveled at the exotic space with the aura of a casbah in Tangier. “It was all the rage then.”

Cecil led me onto the stage and presented the panoramic perspective of performers—the rows of red seat backs ascending to the shadows, the balcony with an ornate gold railing, and more seats climbing to the ceiling. Chandeliers, circular racks of light bulbs, suspended on long chains, illuminated the boxes lining the walls between rich architectural columns. Even the empty hall prompted stage fright. I was sure a sea of upturned faces would render me speechless and unable to perform any role no matter how much I had rehearsed.

I was rescued from the terror of my imaginary stage debut as Cecil called my attention to stains that streamed down the walls from the ceiling at several locations. He said the 1927 roof had never been replaced and there were patches on patches. The swirling plaster decor was endangered, and such plastering was a lost art.

“Meet Big Bertha, the pride and joy of the Alabama Theatre. I’ll be at the console of the Mighty Wurlitzer creating creepy music as well as sound effects for Lon Chaney’s 1926 Phantom of the Opera. Talk about bells and whistles, you wouldn’t believe Big Bertha’s repertoire. We get a crowd for the shaky black-and-white silent movies. I’ll give you complimentary tickets.”

The red organ with intricate gold trim was a world apart from the small, blonde wood organ in the choir loft at my boyhood parish church. Big Bertha sat proudly stage right in the cavernous theatre facing the screen so swooshing winds and clanging sirens could be timed precisely with the action in the movie. Rows of keys and special effects buttons were arrayed vertically in full view of the audience.

“We’ve got an electrician rebuilding the elevator motor so the organ can emerge from the basement as the movie begins. Before the motor shorted out, that drew a huge round of applause as I came up playing the opening number. Great fun.” Cecil beamed.

“Amazing it still works,” I said.

“Took lot’s of tender love and care. A group of aficionados got permission from the owners to come in and maintain Bertha when the Alabama was shut down. There are leather valves and hinges that need to be oiled periodically, and it needs to be played. After we did our work, I would play some numbers in the darkened theatre for our crew. It was their reward,” Cecil added nodding.

Cecil led me to his office decorated with playbills for “Singing in the Rain” and “Arsenic and Old Lace.” He folded his hands on his desk and said, “When Paramount’s Adolph Zukor opened this theatre in 1927, he said, ‘Meet me at the Alabama will become the motto around the state.’
That’s my goal.” I nodded, and he continued in a grave voice, “We need to work together to bring people downtown. I need to put butts in seats and you need to get these vacant buildings occupied. The Alabama and Operation New Birmingham need to be partners. ”

I heartily concurred. Cecil said he had approached Dr. A. G. Gaston, the African-American millionaire who owned Citizen’s Federal Savings and Loan, for a loan to buy the theatre from the Costa-Head Company, the struggling developer that had overly ambitious plans for several blocks of downtown. Dr. Gaston built the Booker T. Washington Insurance Company, a radio station, a business school, a motel, and several other businesses catering to the African-American community. He began with burial insurance.

In a few weeks later, I joined Cecil, his attorney, Danny Evans, and Ed LaMonte from the mayor’s office in Dr. Gaston’s plush conference room. Dr. Gaston began by noting that he could not even look in the window of the Alabama Theatre when he was a young man. Ed and I exchanged nervous glances. Dr. Gaston set that aside with a wave of his hand and offered Cecil’s newly minted and penniless non-profit a four year loan for $650,000 at 10 percent interest. The terms were stiff, but financing was probably not available through any other bank. Cecil stepped forward and thanked Dr. Gaston as he vigorously shook the older man’s hand. We followed with words of appreciation.

As CEO of the Downtown Action Committee as well as Operation New Birmingham, I worked with Cecil and Birmingham News executive Vincent Townsend to mount a fundraising program to “Save the Alabama.” Newspaper and TV stories lamented the recent loss of our grand Terminal Station. Theatre tours featuring a brief organ concert drew curious citizens and $100,000 was soon in an account at Dr. Gaston’s bank. A single week’s run of Gone With the Wind starring Vivian Leigh and Clark Gable brought in $20,000.

Linda Nelson, a historic preservationist on our staff, applied for a $120,000 Endangered Treasures Grant from the National Trust for Historic Preservation, and we received funds to put a new roof on the theatre. The elaborate plaster work was safe.

Cecil focused his new resources on meeting safety codes and restoring the mechanical equipment on stage needed for performances. Peeling paint and alarming water stains were retained. Ripped seats remained. The growing number of people attending events and touring the theatre donated sums large and small to ”Save the Alabama.” Dr. Gaston’s loan was repaid ahead of schedule, and in a few years Cecil raised $10 million to fully restore the sumptuous movie palace to its former glory. At a gala celebration of the grand re-opening in 1988, Dr. Gaston privately told Cecil, “For most of my life, I couldn’t go in that theatre and, now that I can, I won’t.” Even in his absence, Dr. Gaston and Citizens Federal were duly recognized for their role in restoration of the “Showplace of the South.”

Promoters saw the popularity of the historic theatre and offered to partner with Cecil on shows for singers and bands, but Cecil refused to invest in productions for a percentage of the box office revenue. Instead he required rent in advance. Most shows attracted crowds, but some bombed. Cecil’s rental fees and income from candy and popcorn allowed him to gradually improve the theatre.

Classic movies continued, but Cecil attracted new audiences by presenting comedians, live concerts, and events that ranged from the camp Rocky Horror Picture Show to the Alabama Symphony Orchestra. B. B. King, Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, and others national stars played to full houses. Local colleges and high schools held graduation ceremonies, and Operation New Birmingham’s Annual Meeting celebrated downtown’s progress in the restored Alabama Theatre.

I repeatedly cited Cecil’s success in bringing people downtown after dark as proof that people would come downtown if there was an attractive destination. This was a strong argument for locating other attractions downtown. The McWane Center and the IMAX Theater were developed downtown because the Alabama demonstrated the potential audience. The developers who pioneered loft apartments were reassured by this justification for investing in downtown. The Alabama led the way.

Through Operation New Birmingham, we organized a committee led by Cecil’s wife, Linda, to document the history of the surrounding area and make tax incentives available for renovation of the historic retail buildings. Restaurants and shops face the sidewalk and people live upstairs in loft apartments.

With the Carver Theater, the IMAX Theater, the Red Mountain Theater clustered around the Alabama, we began to promote the area as a Theater District. The owners of the 1912 Lyric Theater donated their dilapidated property to Cecil’s non-profit organization. It’s grand opening in 2015 reinforced our aspirational designation.

On a recent evening I strolled down Third Avenue just after sunset. The Alabama’s sign, framed by lights that traveled the perimeter of the marquee, shone brightly in the rosy western sky. The bright lights of the Lyric Theater across the street made Third Avenue as luminous as New York’s “Great White Way.” Groups of restaurant patrons were continuing their dinner conversations as they made their way to the Alabama for Alice Cooper and the Lyric for the Russian Ballet. “Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar” was playing at Red Mountain Theater and “The Jazz Express” was at the Carver. The sidewalks were almost crowded.

At Revelator Coffee, I relaxed at an outside table with a double latte. I heard indistinct chatter of people on balconies above me in Cecil Whitmire Lofts. If only Cecil, my departed partner, could be at the table with me to savor the urbane scene on Third Avenue and quietly celebrate the revival of the Alabama Theatre in the 1980s that was the catalyst for today’s vibrant Theater District.

The house lights faded and a spotlight shone on a single microphone at the center of the stage of the Alabama Theatre. A man in a gray suit with a striped tie stepped into the spotlight and said, “Good afternoon. I’m David Sher, Chairman of Operation New Birmingham, and I would like to welcome you to another annual meeting. We will elect new officers, hear from the new chairman, review the progress that has occurred in downtown Birmingham, and …”

“Wait just a minute, sir,” shouted a man in a silky blue and red suit as he entered from behind the curtain. When he reached center stage, he dropped his brown, plaid suitcase with the name Professor Harold Hill in large letters on the side.

“Ya got trouble!” he announced to everyone. “Ya got trouble, right here in Birmingham! That’s Trouble with a capital T…” he continued with broad flourishes. “You need a band, a big band, and I’m the man to bring you a band. I’m the Music Man — Professor Harold Hill, at your service,” with a deep bow.

David extended his arm, pointed his finger at him, and said, “Professor, you’re wrong! We got Progress, right here in Birmingham! That’s Progress with a capital P.”

The Music Man shook his head, pantomimed his disbelief, and appealed to the audience with hand spread wide.

“We got progress with a capital P. Follow me, and I’ll show you. You’ll see it with your own eyes,” said David leading Professor Harold Hill off the stage. A video lit up the big screen and showed David and the professor leaving the theater. In the lobby of the newly renovated Redmont Hotel, David pointed out the restored chandelier and said “Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was one of the investors.”

“O.K. I guess this is some progress. Anything else happening in this town?” asked the Music Man.

The image dissolved and David and the Music Man were in a chic loft apartment. “Young people are moving into converted warehouses like this,” said David with a flourish. “You can see several more from this window,” said David pointing. The screen showed the Goodall-Brown Building, the Fix-Play Showroom and Warehouse, the W. S. Brown Store, and several others under construction. Then a close-up of David shaking his finger at the Music Man filled the screen as David said, “We’ve got Progress, and that starts with P.” As planned, a smattering of applause came from ONB staff.

Next attendees saw a wide-angle view of renovated buildings on both sides of Second Avenue North as the camera progressed west on Second Avenue North slowly. David’s voice listed the restaurants, bars, businesses, and lofts as they floated past. “This will be the new ‘Main Street’ of Birmingham’s emerging Loft District.”

“Cool—progress, I guess” said the Music Man

The video tour continued as David and the Music Man stood in front of new buildings and construction sites in downtown, at UAB, and in Five Points South. The Music Man nodded a lot on the screen. Finally David said, “We’ve got to get back to the ONB Annual Meeting. The words “Progress with a Capital P” appeared on the screen and prompted a hearty round of applause, begun by the ONB staff and spread throughout the theater.

* * *

ONB’s annual luncheon was at noon in the exotic Spanish-Moorish theater billed as the “Showplace of the South” because Terry Slaughter, public relations advisor to AmSouth Bank, said, “Boring! Those meetings in the Sheraton ballroom, a sea of round tables with a long head table, bad food and worse speeches are a big yawn. Like all the other luncheons.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I said, “but we’ve need to bring our supporters together and tell how we’re revitalizing downtown. They come once a year like many people only go to church on Easter Sunday.

Terry flashed his boyish smile and said, “Meet at the Alabama Theatre, serve hot dogs, have some fun, and put on a show. People will love it!”

“But will our members really pay a big price for a hot dog and chips they would eat on their laps?” I asked.

“Absolutely. Your members are supporting ONB. Besides a good, ball park hot dog beats chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas every day of the week.”

As I nodded, I began to recognize the potential for net proceeds if we handed out hot dogs instead of serving a plate lunch. The beloved 1928 theater that was a symbol of downtown’s revival that everyone had rallied to save from the wrecking ball.

“Whatever AmSouth pays you, Terry, they are getting their money’s worth,” I told him with a grateful handshake.

* * *

I called Cathy Rye Gilmore, who arranged bands for ONB’s noon entertainment in Linn Park, and performed with the popular cabaret comedy group, “The Wits’ Other End.”

“Oh! What fun. You’ve made my day,” Cathy exclaimed. “I’ll get some ideas together over the weekend.”

On Monday, David and I sat across the table from each other in our conference room with Geoff Langdon, our PR man; his business card said Chief Creative Guy, and awaited Cathy.

She floated in like a diva and took her seat at the head of the table. After gracious greetings, she held up sheet music with a picture of Robert Preston in full costume as the Music Man.

“You know the plot, of course. It’s perfect for ONB,” she said projecting her voice theatrically. She summarized the story pausing to point out adaptations for our annual meeting. “Everyone will love it!”

“I’ve got actors in mind to play the roles of the Music Man and an ONB spokesman. I also dubbed ‘Birmingham, Alabama’ for ‘Gary, Indiana; Gary, Indiana…’ She sang a few bars. “Are you with me?”

“Bravo,” cried Geoff. “I love it.”

As eyes turned to me, I said, “This is our annual meeting, our best chance to showcase progress downtown and let our members know the impact their dues are making. We’re not just entertaining them.”

“Your past annual meetings have been so boring that half are asleep and the other half are not listening. I guarantee that no one will sleep through this show,” said Cathy.

“Your message can be loud and clear as part of the show,” Geoff said to me.

“When you show the Music Man that we’ve got Progress with a capital P, you’ll be speaking to your members. And they’ll be awake,” said Cathy. I looked at David for his reaction?

“It could work. I’m not sure we need two actors. I’ve been playing the role of ONB chairman all year. It’s a bit part and I think I can do it on the stage.”

“We’ll let you audition, David,” said Cathy with a wink.

“Good. I like the whole idea. If we’re going to ask our members to pay the regular ticket price for a hot dog, maybe we’d better entertain them. It’s scary, but I’m in.”

“Do we have to take this to the Board?” I asked David.

“Let’s just tell them we’ve committed to do our meeting at the Alabama with some entertainment. If we ask, they’ll hem and haw, ask about liability insurance, and talk it to death. Cathy, give us a budget.”

“This is going to be great fun,” said Cathy. Geoff pumped both fists in the air.

“But there’s one more thing,” said David, puncturing the mood, “I want to make some remarks about the organization and prospects for the future of downtown. I know you’ll weave some of this into the script, but I feel strongly about making some specific remarks.”

“Oh no, David, that will interrupt the flow. The show is less than an hour. Too disruptive,” said Cathy shaking her head.

“The number, “Birmingham, Alabama” would lead smoothly into my remarks,” David asserted.

“Only if you sing it,” said Cathy. “Otherwise, bringing you on stage will be jarring. It will change the mood.”

“I’ll do the song. We’ve got a plan. Thanks, everyone,” said David as he rose. We were stunned.

A week before the meeting, Cathy ran our first rehearsal in a deserted theater. She taught us which was stage right and which was stage left. Everyone had scripts in hand. David read his lines, Cathy called for the actor playing the Music Man to come out quicker, and the video ran smoothly. When we got to David’s number, he stepped to center stage front and burst forth with “Birmingham, Alabama; Birmingham, Alabama…” in a strong, unwavering baritone. The group fell silent when he finished. “Was that OK?” he asked.

“Fantastic, David. You’ll be the star if you do it that well at the meeting,” said Cathy.

As David and I left the theater, I asked where he had learned to sing. “My Dad wanted me to get a business degree and take over the family furniture store, but I convinced him to let me go to Syracuse University in their Theater Program. I couldn’t stand snow and cold, so after a year in frozen upstate New York, I went to Alabama.”

“Who knew? I’ll bet you can tap dance and act, too.” I said.

“i can’t dance, but I think I can sing a number that repeats “Birmingham, Alabama” as its only lyrics

* * *

The office was a call center with a low rumble that rose and fell. All six staff were calling members and others who might spend $35 to pick up a hot dog and listen to a pitch on downtown. The Chamber of Commerce and United Way charged a similar price for a full meal, salad through dessert, at a round table in a hotel ballroom. Our invitations featured a color photo of the Alabama’s marquee instead of an ivory card with calligraphy. Our Board of Directors and stalwart supporters began to send checks for rows instead of tables.

An ONB Tote Board was mounted on the conference room wall that showed tickets received each day, the number of days left, and the goal: 700 people. The theater held 2,100 and our highest attendance ever was 550. Our plan was use red velvet ropes on brass stanchions to block the darkened balconies and the first floor under the balcony, and fill the rest of the first floor—if we could. I brought glazed doughnuts in the morning and chocolate chipped cookies in the afternoons for the boiler room crew. The coffee pot was stayed full.

All the buttons on our receptionists phone set were lit. The staff called this annual frenzy, “Dialing for Dollars.” Everyone worked through their list. Between the envelopes in the mail and the promises extracted on the phone, attendance reached the point that it would not be a total embarrassment, or, in our office parlance, ”we wouldn’t have to leave town under cover of darkness.” Slowly the numbers on the tote board climbed enough to make the first floor look full.

* * *

I was a greeter as members came into the grand lobby of the Alabama Theatre. Some had never seen the splendor of the red walls and carpet, sconces reflected in gold-framed mirrors. Others were impressed anew by the “Showplace of the South.” I helped a few stragglers find their seats after the curtain rose, and found a place in the shadows near the steps to the stage. The tightness in my chest decreased after the first scene went smoothly and the video filled the big screen. David joined me in the dark aisle to watch himself and the Music Man on the screen.

Soon he was on the stage singing “Birmingham, Alabama; Birmingham, Alabama…” without missing a note. I was impressed all over again. The muscles in my shoulders and neck were still tight as we approached the final scene.

The Music Man agreed emphatically that “Birmingham has prodigious progress underway in downtown and on the Southside. A multiplicity of promising projects. Congratulations!”

David asked if Birmingham’s got Progress with a Capital P. The Music Man repeated the phrase with gusto and said he was going to River City where they got trouble.

“Wait a minute,” said David. “You promised us a big band.”

“Indeed I did.” On that cue, the Parker High Marching Band entered from the lobby and marched down the aisles playing “Seventy-Six Trombones” from the Music Man. The students’ purple uniforms, flashing brass instruments, and booming drums brought everyone to their feet.

I caught Terry Slaughter’s eye in the crowd and shouted, “How was it?”